


The Beautiful Game

by scoradh



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Look, it's original slash about pretend-Victorian England wherein they play rugby, inspired by this one time I ODed on Trollope. It's also a gay retelling of Cinderella (with rugby).</p><p>Written in October 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Game

_Rugby is a good occasion for keeping thirty bullies far from the center of the city._

~ Oscar Wilde

 

"Ali, you've got to wake up!"  
  
The sweet voice sounded so much like his mother's, which he now only half-remembered. Alistair smiled. The hand gently shaking his shoulder abruptly ceased. There came a fading patter of footsteps, followed by two loud voices, each striving to drown out the other.  
  
"Damn, that's a pretty maid," said one, while the other laughed and said, "Not for much longer, if I have anything to do with it."  
  
"Shut up - I saw her first."  
  
"No, _you_ shut up. I'll have her if I want her. You can take what's left."  
  
"Just because you're three minutes older -"  
  
By this time Alistair was fully awake, and wishing he wasn't.  
  
"Look what we have here," said Dommie, who was three minutes younger and three inches shorter than his brother, and spent most of his life trying to make up the deficit. "It's Sir Soot-face."  
  
"What do you think you're about, grubbing up my father's books like this? Don't you have some shoes to clean?" Seb sauntered around the leather-bound desk and flicked Alistair in the forehead. He flinched. "What's wrong? Scared?"  
  
"If you like," said Alistair. "Does Sir Paul call for me?"  
  
"If he does, I can't imagine why." Seb bestowed upon Alistair a look of utter scorn, lingering on his tired mouth, dirty hair and shabby shirt cuffs. "What on earth would he need your assistance for - cleaning the chimney?"  
  
"Only when the chimneysweep wants to be paid a fair wage," said Alistair. Seb and Dommie looked at each other, then at Alistair, who schooled his face into blankness. Unable to tell if Alistair was in jest, and whether his comment was more offensive thus, Seb settled for pinching Alistair's neck hard enough to bruise. Alistair winced, but not enough for Seb's liking.  
  
It was at that moment that Sir Paul strode through the door. His brocaded waistcoat strained across his ample midriff and sported not a few wine stains, but he exuded such an air of ferocious arrogance that no one would have dared to comment. Alistair did not like his step-father's looks, which put him too much in mind of a fat, white slug oozing out of a good suit, but he knew that in terms of cleanliness he had no basis on which to reproach Sir Paul.  
  
"There you two are!" he exclaimed, in tones of high admonition. "Did not I remind that blasted housemaid to alert me to your arrival?"  
  
"No," mouthed Alistair to himself. Sir Paul had drunk himself into a wine-sotted sleep before four o'clock, and it was now half-past eight.  
  
"Never mind, I'll dock her wages. That'll sharpen the chit's memory. Well, Sebastian, well, Dominic. How goes it?"  
  
"Seb's about to get rusticated," said Dommie gleefully. "We came away just before the don called for him."  
  
"Humph. I don't see that there's much benefit in a university education anyhow. I'd say the rugby blues will be sad to lose him."  
  
"They still have me," said Dommie.  
  
Sir Paul cast a jaundiced eye over his younger son. "Prop forwards should be big, strong lads. I'll order in steak. You look to need building up."  
  
Dommie pouted. Seb smoothed down his coarse forelock and smirked. Alistair hid his face in the encyclopaedia and indulged in a covert roll of his eyes.  
  
"What do you intend to do with yourself now - aside from make a great nuisance of yourself?" But this was said affectionately.  
  
"I have plans, governor." Seb puffed himself up, his fashionably pale calfskin breeches rolling with the effort of holding in his ham-sized thighs. "The Crown Prince is scouting for players to make a team against His Seraphic Highness Prince Joachim. Just last week Baron Idlewilde was granted a small country estate for his part in the victory against Emperor Xang's team. There's a fortune to be made at court."  
  
"So you intend to put yourself forward?" said Sir Paul. "I could put in a good word. That Baron Ildewilde is nothing but a jumped-up commoner, but he acknowledges his debt to me yet."  
  
"You may if you fancy it," said Seb negligently, "but I can't see how I'll need it. I was the number one player in my college, and far better than any frail little courtier. The Crown Prince will be begging me to be his hooker."  
  
"You weren't the number one player, I was," argued Dommie.  
  
"Well, you certainly are now." Seb hitched up his breeches, resplendent in being both the first rusticated and the first rugby player in the family.  
  
Alistair was just pondering a quiet removal when Sir Paul's gaze fell on him. Alistair met the small, pink eyes squarely, knowing he was in for a scolding no matter what he did. If he hadn't been there, Sir Paul would have berated him for negligence. If he'd kept his eyes demurely trained on his book, Sir Paul would have demanded to know if he was raising a man or a lady mouse. It was a win-lose situation that was eternally in Sir Paul's favour.  
  
"And why are You here, pray?" demanded Sir Paul. He hadn't called Alistair by his Christian name since his mother died, but everyone knew who he meant when he said 'You' like that.  
  
"I was polishing the furniture, sir."  
  
Sir Paul snorted. "Much good you've done. Hie you back to the kitchen, where you belong."  
  
"Yes sir." Alistair bowed slightly. Seb cuffed him on the way out, and Dommie called, "Perhaps we shall pay you a call later, Sir Soot-face."  
  
Alistair forbore to reply. He had already made a decision to run errands for cook all night - anything not to be in the same house as a bored Dommie and a vindictive Seb.  
  
Betty was waiting for him at the foot of the servant's stairs. "Oh, Ali, I tried so hard to wake you before they arrived. Were they very cruel?"  
  
"Only when they couldn't find an opportunity of being stupid," said Alistair. "You need to stay out of their way. Maids are of no consequence to them, and no one would think it objectionable if you were thrown out on the street."  
  
"I will, but you should be careful too." Betty smiled winsomely, but Alistair was too tired for it to wreak the intended effect.  
  
"I'm always careful," he said with a yawn. "Is cook about? I think I'll contrive that she needs more flour urgently."  
  
"I can hide the bag if you like," Betty offered. Alistair blinked in surprise.  
  
"You don't need to do that."  
  
"I know." She smiled again and this time, Alistair took notice before she bustled off.  
  
He wasn't sure if Betty's interest in him were a good or a bad thing. For her, it was uniformly bad - not only was she associating with the most disgraced member of the household, she laid herself open to even more indignities at the hands of the twins than the usual housemaid's lot. For himself, the prospect of having an ally in the house was almost incomprehensible.  
  
Alistair had lived the greater part of his life accustomed to putting things out of his head, otherwise he would not have been able to bear the turn his life had taken. Setting aside Betty's behaviour was no trouble at all - especially when he had an 'errand' to grant him partial freedom for an hour or two.  
  
There was only one place Alistair had to go, and he went.  
  
+_+_+  
  
The roar of his teammates' voices was as irrelevant as the wind that burned his skin. Alistair - his hair plastered to his skull, his thin shirt glued to his chest - flew. The ball in his arms was as close as his beating heart. Boots nipped at his ankles, fingers plucked his sleeves. He felt nothing, only the sure copper taste of victory. At the last minute a lucky foot tripped him, but he tumbled over the line with the ball yet in his possession. A second later he was the bottom of a heap of bodies.  
  
"Gerrof him, gerrof him!" The shrill cry pierced the grunts of the dogpile, which gradated to agonised moans depending on depth. "Bunker, you great loon, it's over. Stop trying to get the ball."  
  
Bunker sprang up to defend his honour. Alastair immediately felt a considerable reduction in the force that was attempting to crush him through the ground. A few seconds more, with the help of further shrill cries and negative epithets about the players' ancestry, and Alastair was able to roll free. He dropped the ball carelessly, knowing a dozen vengeful eyes watched and brooded.  
  
"Good one, good one," said the owner of both the shrill voice and a ridiculous three-foot tall top hat, which could not be removed under any persuasion. His name was Jimmy. If Jimmy wasn't so quick to refute the fact himself, or to clean his teeth with a pick carved from the little finger bone of his enemies, Alastair might have called him a friend. As it was, they were acquaintances and occasional teammates, and Alastair let the definition go at that.  
  
"Another game?" asked Bunker. He'd snatched up the ball as soon as Alastair released it and was now cradling it, the look on his face that of a maternal mastiff.  
  
Alastair shook his head. "Duty calls."  
  
"Lily-liver," said Bunker.  
  
"Apt, mate, apt," said Jimmy. "You cried when someone trod on your foot the last game, am I not correct? Am I not correct?"  
  
Bunker suddenly became extremely interested in coercing the other apprentices into a rematch. Alastair doubted he'd be very successful. Jimmy was thumbing through a little black notebook, meaning he intended to return to work, which put two of the best players out of the running. Most of the young men only participated because Jack Straw, who owned the scrap of land on which they played, was a fan of the game. He was also, by lucky coincidence, a bookie. Quite a few of the Blue Cul-de-Sac inhabitants were willing to put money on the scrambled-together teams. The profit Jack turned easily enabled him to distribute a free beaker of ale to all participants.  
  
"You not thirsty?" Jimmy asked Alistair quietly. Alistair shook his head. He'd once been foolish enough to return to Sir Paul's house with hops on his breath. He didn't intend to repeat the experience that followed.  
  
"Pity, pity," said Jimmy, slightly louder. "Word's out on royal scouts."  
  
"Word's always out on royal scouts," said Alistair. "If they ever watched any game but those in the colleges, I - well. I'd eat your hat."  
  
"Probably not to be recommended," said a voice from behind him. "Next time we declare war, we won't need troops. We'll just send in that young man's hat and everyone will die of plague inside a week."  
  
"I take offence to that, I take offence to that," said Jimmy. "Cholera, I'll give you, but plague?"  
  
Alastair turned around slowly. The man lounging against the wall was younger than his voice suggested. This voice was roughened, the veneer of civility sheer against the tumult of darkness beneath. His appearance was quite at odds with it, being foppish to the point of dandyism. He was even wearing lace gloves. The lace was black and edged with something that, if Alastair didn't know better regarding the fashionable world's distain for heavy metals, might have been steel. And yet - they were still lace gloves.  
  
"Excuse me a moment," said the man. He ducked sideways, under the brim of his huge and feather-tortured hat, and released a small squeak. When he re-emerged, the little pointed moustache and beard were gone, leaving bubbly red skin in their place. "So my disguise really was impenetrable?" he said when Alastair and Jimmy just stared at him in silence.  
  
"No, yer honner," said Jimmy. "You look like a tool either way."  
  
"Didn't we have the conversation about politeness?" said Alistair.  
  
"We did, we did," said Jimmy. "Came in right handy when we had to put Sharkey John out of business. He asked me to please not cut his head off, and I remembered what you said about saying please, so I didn't."  
  
"Oh, really?" said Alistair. In Jimmy's world it was eat or be eaten, so Alistair sometimes tried to advise him on the third, non-edible option. He had sincere doubts that Jimmy actually listened, however.  
  
"Yes," said Jimmy. "I cut his bollocks off instead."  
  
"What a charming tale," said the man. "And your name is?"  
  
"Jimmy Blackteeth," said Jimmy. "Pleasedtomeetcha, yer honner." He winked at Alistair, as if to make sure he'd noticed the 'pleased'.  
  
"Your teeth are ... not black," said the man. Jimmy flashed him another golden grin.  
  
"Well, I've come up in the world, I have, I have," he said. "But names tend to stick."  
  
"Don't I know it," muttered the man.  
  
"Have you two met before?" asked Alistair. It was not outside the bounds of possibility. Jimmy was quite the savvy businessman, although not one regularly received at the tradesmen's entrance. An unlocked ground floor window, perhaps.  
  
"I know the Baron here by reputation, you could say," said Jimmy. Alistair's eyes widened.  
  
"Baron Idlewilde?" he said. "The royal rugby scout?"  
  
"Well, not _the_ ," the Baron corrected him, but Alistair could tell he was pleased. "There are several of us. There need to be. Emperor Xang has a population of two million slaves to choose from; word is he's still smarting from our thrashing. He won't underestimate us again, which means we need to keep raking up new talent if we're to win the Five Courts Cup."  
  
"There's plenty of it about," said Alistair, thinking of Seb's hopes and dreams.  
  
"I like to think so," said the Baron. "Gentlemen, may I buy you a drink?"  
  
"You may buy me three," said Jimmy.  
  
Alistair had a moment of crushing regret, but it was the same moment that the rooftops became drenched in moonlight. He didn't own a watch, but he didn't have to; he was late.  
  
"I'm very sorry, but I have to go," he said. Before the Baron could speak, Alistair was off. His speed did him great service as he scooped up his jacket and hat, not spilling the bag of flour tucked in the bowl, and sprinted off into the night.  
  
+++  
  
Every single vertebrae in Alistair's spine clamoured to lodge a formal complaint of misuse against his brain. Cleaning fifteen pairs of rugby boots would do that to a person. If Alistair hadn't been able to fit his arm to the elbow inside one of Seb's boots, he would have considered misplacing a pair for his own use. Seb and Dommie were exceedingly careless when it came to their possessions, and the force of Seb's kick shredded more boots than he could ever miss. Unfortunately, Alistair's feet were tiny by comparison. As well to strap on a pair of buckets and attempt to play in those.  
  
A snatch of soft song broke into Alistair's musings. Betty meandered down the back stairs, swinging a basket of linens with gay abandon. Her face broke into a smile when she saw Alistair, which for some reason brought heat to his face. A buttery curl escaped from the confines of her snowy mobcap as she heaved the linens into the large copper cauldron established for the purpose.  
  
"My word, that's a lot of shoes," said Betty. "Who could possibly need that many?"  
  
"Who do you think?" asked Alistair.  
  
"Are you nearly done?" asked Betty. "Only, I have to go to market to fetch more carrots. I could do with a strong back to help me."  
  
Alistair slit his eyes to the heavy bed sheets currently smouldering in boiling water, but he nodded. "Just let me finish the last two pairs, and I'll be at your service."  
  
To his surprise, Betty didn't leave to fulfil another duty in the meantime. Instead, she hacked off a slice of bread with more savagery than finesse and buttered it. She ate perched on a chair, with the tips of her greying boots peeking out from under the serviceable navy stuff of her gown.  
  
"You have very long fingers," she said, which to Alistair didn't appear to be at all to the purpose.  
  
"I, well - yes. They used to be shorter," he added, "but they grew."  
  
Betty giggled. Alistair couldn't understand why. "You weren't born a servant, were you?"  
  
"No one is born a servant," said Alistair. "It's something one becomes, through desire or necessity."  
  
"Who desires to be a servant?" Betty brushed crumbs off her skirt with a rather dismissive movement.  
  
"There are worse things," said Alistair quietly. To forestall further questioning, he gave a final swipe to the last boot and set it down beside its partner. "All done."  
  
"I'll get my cape." Betty jumped from her chair. As she passed Alistair she pressed something into his hands. "I'll be two minutes."  
  
Alistair looked down. She'd cut him a ragged slice of bread. The butter was smeared oddly: two large dabs and one long stripe. It took him a while before he recognised the smiling face.  
  
+++  
  
Sir Paul ran a sloppy household. So long as there was port enough to sot his thirst and good meat and pies at his table, he cared little if the floors were sparkling or all the fires lit. The only person in the household he kept close tabs on was Alistair, something Alistair realised with force when Betty extended a five-minute errand into an hour-long browsing spree.  
  
In a way it was pleasant, for Betty clung to his arm and the warmth of a rare human touch thrilled him, in the same way it did when he played rugby. Yet there was a constant undercurrent of anxiety, especially as the minutes trickled on. Alistair supposed he was a coward, but he preferred to think of himself as cautious. Sir Paul would find a reason to punish him regardless of his punctuality or lack thereof; Alistair simply didn't believe in handing him ammunition.  
  
"Ooh, look, the flower market!" Betty closed her eyes and sniffed ecstatically. Alistair couldn't suppress a smile at her delighted expression. "Shall we go in?"  
  
"Sir Paul doesn't require flowers, I am sure."  
  
"Hang Sir Paul," retorted Betty. "Is he here now?"  
  
She wrenched her arm out of his and marched beneath the bowered entrance. Alistair followed reluctantly. He was carrying the basket of groceries and the bills. Neither of them had any money, but Betty was a far more likely target for a pickpocket - or worse.  
  
At first he couldn't see her, and his heart pinched in fright. Then the sound of a familiar giggle drifted through a bank of roses. Alistair wriggled past two vendors conducting a duel with potted ferns and saw Betty, a crown of Brazilian roses and blue Gerber daises replacing her mobcap. She looked young and silly, her smile too bright.  
  
Alistair strode over and hissed in her ear, "You know we can't pay for those."  
  
Betty pouted, but the sight of a familiar, dirt-shiny hat interrupted their burgeoning tiff. "All in hand, all in hand," said Jimmy. "I think she looks quite fetching."  
  
"I agree," said Betty, examining her reflection in a gilded mirror apparently set there for the purpose.  
  
"What's in it for you?" Alistair asked Jimmy.  
  
"I can't buy pretty flowers for a pretty lady?" Alistair just stared. "All right, all right. I can't buy pretty flowers for a pretty lady."  
  
"It's fine." Betty patted Alistair's arm. Her hands were quite smooth for a housemaid's. "Jimmy and I are old friends. He asked me to bring you here as a favour. And also for money."  
  
"I bought you flowers!" protested Jimmy.  
  
"No one made you." Betty adjusted her crown with a smirk. "That'll be five shillings, thank you."  
  
Curling his lip and exposing the full glory that was his nine carat plate, Jimmy deposited a handful of soiled coins in Betty's outstretched palm.  
  
"Five shillings? I would have come for free," said Alistair.  
  
"That's because you have the business sense of a goat," Betty told him. "I'll just be over here, examining the lilies Jimmy's going to buy me and not hearing a word."  
  
"She's a fine woman," said Jimmy with admiration.  
  
"The last time you said that, you ended up down an ear," said Alistair. "Are you going to let me in on the mystery? Especially when you could have seen me tomorrow night without the scented backdrop?"  
  
"Too many ears, too many ears," said Jimmy, tapping what was left of his with a conspiratorial air. "I've been instructed to pass this on to you." He handed over a letter, sealed with a blob of gold wax. Alistair squinted, but the alignment was too poor to make out the details of the crest.  
  
"Did you open this already?" he asked.  
  
"Didn't have to. I already know what it says."  
  
Alistair carefully broke the seal. It split reluctantly, verifying Jimmy's claim although not necessarily Alistair's lack of trust. _Dear Sir_ , the letter ran, in the careful hand of a trained scribe, _We, the Undersigned Royal Scouts, are Delighted to Invite you to a Royal Trial on Wednesday the Fifth of August at Four of the Clock. Those Lucky enough to win a Place on the Team will go on to Win Glory and Honour beyond their Wildest Imaginings. Yours, Duke Marsh-on-Wye, Baron Ildewilde, Sir Mallett and Lord Scropie._  
  
"Did you forge this?" demanded Alistair.  
  
"No!" Jimmy sounded affronted. "That is, I could have. But I didn't. Not this time. Although my rates are extremely reasonable -"  
  
"Sir Paul would never send me such a letter," said Alistair.  
  
"True, true," said Jimmy. "He didn't. It was Baron Ildewilde. He may dress like he's blind but he's clearly not. He wants you for the wing. These have been going out all over the kingdom. I daresay Sir Paul Mallett-head doesn't know who the other scouts picked. And why should that stop you?"  
  
"He'll be there." Alistair mechanically refolded the letter. "At the trial. If he sees me..."  
  
Jimmy just looked at him for a while. "There's plenty of openings," he said. "In the meat and dog trade with me. Even another household - no one can keep good kitchen staff for long. Why do you stay with him?"  
  
Alistair sighed. "Because if I don't, he'll kill -"  
  
"You're a big lad," said Jimmy, "and fast. Fast. I could teach you skills that'd make the best assassin wish he'd become a chartered accountant instead."  
  
"You don't understand," said Alistair. "If I leave, he won't kill me. He'll kill the only person I'd stay to save."  
  
"Your ma's dead, though. Unless..." Jimmy glanced over to Betty, who was gathering a monstrous bouquet by dint of asking each vendor for their most expensive blooms.  
  
"No, not her." Alistair sighed. "My grandfather."  
  
+++  
  
Betty's sulks ended the moment they entered the backdoor of the kitchen. She'd alternately pleaded and begged all the way home and, when such tactics failed, evidently felt opting for a cold shoulder was the next-best logistical manoeuvre.  
  
Seb was lounging by the meagre fire. Alistair could see at once that he would have to re-clean each and everyone of the fifteen pairs of boots. Dommie would have gone outside and dropped them in the coal bin first, but Seb went to no such trouble. He merely smirked around a toothpick and let Alistair infer the rest.  
  
"Excuse me, sir," said Betty. Her voice and air were quieter and more demure than Alistair had thought her capable of, and he credited her with more wisdom than he had previously. She stowed away the basket of turnips and flowers and left the room, not with any noticeable haste, but speedily nonetheless.  
  
"She's a fine armful, I'd warrant," said Seb. He appeared to require an answer, so Alistair said politely:  
  
"I wouldn't know, sir."  
  
"I imagine not. You're a bit slow, really. Ain't you?"  
  
"Yes. Sir." Alistair slid a pause between the two words, which Seb didn't notice but which gave him slight satisfaction.  
  
"You'll be needing to clean my boots," said Seb. "I can't think why you left the house without doing so first. You're a lazy, worthless cad. I suppose that explains it." He tapped snuff into the hollow of his thumb and sniffed it, making a noise akin to that of a famished pig. "I'll need them properly clean and serviceable for Wednesday."  
  
"Wednesday, sir?"  
  
"Yes, Wednesday," mimicked Seb. "Before Thursday and after Monday."  
  
"Tuesday, sir."  
  
"What?" said Seb, disconcerted.  
  
"It's the day that comes before Wednesday," said Alistair, "sir."  
  
"That's what I said, fool." Seb snuffled up a little more snuff, then tried to disguise his sneezing fit as laughter. "You are looking at the next hooker on His Royal Highness' Five Courts team."  
  
"Congratulations on a successful trial, sir." Alistair sat down on a stool and began buffing the already spotless heel of one boot. His angle provided him with the unique opportunity to observe how Seb's capacious stomach rolled over the top of his close-fitting breeches.  
  
"Yes, it will be a successful trial," said Seb. "I'm a shoo-in. I'd advise you to bet on me, only of course you've not a brass razoo to call your own."  
  
"Sir." Alistair inclined his head.  
  
"You're quite the little wind-up monkey," complained Seb. "I'd get better conversation from a door."  
  
"Indeed, sir? Sorry, sir."  
  
"Well, see that you finish those promptly. I'll want you to supervise the cleaning of my lucky kit personally. I like knowing who to blame." Seb lumbered upright.  
  
"How many places are being offered in the trials?" asked Alistair, adding belatedly, "Sir."  
  
"One," said Seb. "Well, two, but I'm guaranteed to get a slot."  
  
"Undoubtedly, sir," said Alistair. "Will that be all?"  
  
"Unless you'd care to tell me which room that pretty maid sleeps in." Seb leered. Alistair wondered if he thought that was attractive, as opposed to unanimously hideous.  
  
"I would not, sir," said Alistair, with such greasy unctuousness that Seb nodded with an expression as close to geniality as he ever ventured. It would undoubtedly take him several hours to spot the discrepancy - plenty of time for Betty to invest in a five-shilling lock.  
  
+++  
  
Wednesday rolled around with much clamour in the Mallett household. Dommie had not come in for any nepotistic benefits and consequently was in a rage. Alistair genuinely believed that Sir Paul had done this for reasons of sense and not favouritism - 'You're going back to university next week; are you going to let your college team down, sir?' Dommie did not quite see it that way; either that or he did not have the same standards of sportsmanship and honour as his father. Alistair had watched this scene play out a hundred times during his residence with the twins. Whatever Seb got Dommie wanted, even if he already possessed an exact replica.  
  
Seb, for his part, was all swagger. He ate three enormous sirloin steaks at every meal, disgusting the cook by his insistence that they be cooked extremely rare. He was forever sending down for raw eggs beaten with whiskey in a tall glass. He certainly expanded in width and consequence due to his new regime, but the fact that it took him a quarter of an hour to mount the stairs, with stops to catch his breath, seemed to him to be of little note.  
  
Since their visit to the market, Betty had not mentioned Alistair's invitation to the trial. Alistair was grateful for her silence. He had enough regrets of his own without her adding to the burden.  
  
His gratefulness vanished in an instant on Wednesday morning, when Betty appeared in the kitchen where Alistair was seasoning yet another lump of meat with onion sauce. The cook had retired to her bed in despair at the proletarian downturn. Betty was dressed in a bonnet and cloak, so Alistair presumed she'd come in to fetch a shopping basket. As it turned out, she'd come to fetch him.  
  
"I can't possibly leave," protested Alistair. Betty tugged on his arm. She had a surprisingly strong grip for such a tiny girl. "Seb expects to eat at least five times before four o'clock, and there's his kit to prepare -"  
  
"The cook will look after the food," said Betty. "It's rather the point of having a cook. And as for his kit, I have it in hand. I've just come from upstairs - they're all so preoccupied they'll never notice you've left."  
  
"I wish I shared your confidence," said Alistair. Betty's fingernails jabbed him, minute pricks of pain.  
  
"Your wish is granted," said Betty, and pulled him out the door.  
  
+++  
  
"Where are we going?" Alistair took loping strides to reduce the need to break into a run. Betty's grip was cutting off the circulation to his lower arm. The scenery whizzed past, but Alistair could tell they were in a shabby-genteel area, with houses of the sort rented by parson's daughters and their maiden aunts on the lookout for a sufficiently rich and stupid husband.  
  
"Here," said Betty. She stopped outside the last house on the street, which turned off into an avenue of slightly grander establishments. Jimmy materialised out of the shadows, some of which seemed to cling to his hat.  
  
"I might have known," said Alistair.  
  
"You're late, you're late," accused Jimmy. "We've barely an hour between us and the kick-off. What were you thinking, chit?"  
  
"It's my fault that he's stubborn as a mule? I thought I'd have to drag him out by his bootstraps."  
  
"It might have been a quicker." Jimmy chivvied them up the steps and thumped the knocker. It was in the shape of a grumpy lion's head. Alistair wondered where he'd seen it before.  
  
The butler who opened the door was of the best sort, one trained not to bat an eyelid when forced to entertain gentlemen with corpses or live tigers. Two grubby servants and a street arab were hardly worth his concern.  
  
He showed them to a drawing room decked out in green and blue stripes. It gave Alistair the impression of being underwater. The upholstery on the sofas was both expensive and worn, and there were holes in the carpet under the writing desk, as if someone were in the habit of kicking at it when lost in thought.  
  
From overhead came a series of discombobulating thumps and what might have been a raised voice, abruptly cut off. The stairs screamed in protest as someone thundered down them. The butler opened the door and bubbled, "His honour the Baron Idlewilde," just before the Baron tumbled into the room.  
  
It was clear that the Baron had just been bathing. His hair fell in sticky waves across his forehead and down his neck, and the ruffles on his shirt were unequal to the task of soaking up the water that rendered most of the garment translucent. Alistair thought it would be impolite to glance down and see if in his haste the Baron's plackets were undone; besides, Jimmy was sniggering, so ten-to-one they were.  
  
The Baron opened his mouth, spotted the clock held captive between prancing bronze lions on the mantle, and clapped a hand to his face. The amethyst on his fourth finger and the aquamarine on his littlest did nothing to disguise the fact that his hands were large and broad, the fingers too roughened to be precisely genteel. Alistair noticed the rims of black under his own fingernails and hastily clasped his hands behind his back.  
  
"Damnation, is that the time?" said the Baron. "I've been running to catch up with myself all day." He turned to Betty, evincing no surprise that a housemaid was making herself comfortable in his second-best armchair. "Go hunt down Beckett, he knows where Alistair's kit is. Which is more than I do."  
  
"You shouldn't let your servants run your household," chided Betty. "Or rather, you should, but you shouldn't make it so obvious."  
  
The Baron shrugged irritably. Alistair was distracted by the thoughtful way Jimmy caressed a mother-of-pearl cigar box. They had a brief but poignant conversation in eyebrow Morse code before Jimmy gave an exaggerated sigh and set the box down on an occasional table.  
  
"My apologies," said the Baron. Alistair jumped; he hadn't realised the Baron was right at his shoulder. "I meant to leave you enough time for a quick training session - I have a magnificent garden behind the house, although you wouldn't think it - and a bath." Alistair shivered at that; perhaps because one of the Baron's cold, damp ruffles brushed the back of his neck. "As it is, we'll just get to the Palace pitch in time. I trust you don't object to travelling in a phaeton?"  
  
"No, indeed," said Alistair, after a minute in which he searched desperately for his voice. It came back rustier than it left. "Sir, I hope you will not think me ungrateful, but - why are you doing this for me?"  
  
The Baron looked up from twisting his rings. His frown cleared. "Please, call me Rupert. The reason is simple: I want His Royal Highness to have the best team possible. I conjecture you would make a splendid wing. Jimmy here intimated that you have some difficulties with your current position that may prevent you playing. I empathise. Call it ... paying back a good turn."  
  
"Oh," said Alistair. The Baron's eyes were the colour of warm treacle. He clapped Alistair on the shoulder and moved away, exclaiming, "Ah, Beckett. The kit is ready?"  
  
"But of course," said Beckett, sounding bored. "If the young gentleman would follow me?"  
  
"Do you need any help?" asked Betty, sounding rather more keen than she did when cook asked her to chip in with peeling vegetables. Alistair couldn't think why.  
  
"Beckett is fine," said the Baron, a note of warning in his voice. "Aren't you, Beckett?"  
  
"Indubitably," said Beckett. "If you'll come this way?"  
  
Alistair followed the stiff-backed butler up the stairs and into a messy bedroom. The yellow satin bedclothes were in a rumple at the foot of the four-poster. Alistair tripped on a pile of boots with no shoelaces and had to steady himself on a dressing table loaded down with newspapers, quill pens, silver-backed brushes and a small goldfish in a bowl.  
  
"If you care to remove your garments behind the screen," said Beckett.  
  
Alistair waded across the detritus on the floor to said screen, which was gaudily decorated in turquoise peacocks embroidered on to gold silk. He slipped off his brown breeches and ragged shirt, tossing them over the top of the screen with his stockings and cravat. He wondered what on earth was in store. As Beckett handed him item after item, each time ascertaining with some surprise that Alistair was able to put it on unaided, all became clear.  
  
Alistair had seen the royal team on parade before matches and, once, had sneaked into a building overlooking the pitch with Jimmy to watch a match. The white breeches and stockings, the loose white shirt with the red waistcoat and cravat, were just like those worn by His Royal Highness' team. The boots were gold-tooled leather; they fit like they were made for him.  
  
The Baron came into the room just as Alistair was wrestling with his cravat, although he didn't realise it till the Baron called, "Nearly done? I do hate to rush you, old chap, but time is pressing on."  
  
Alistair emerged, flushed and with both ends of the cravat clenched in his fists. The Baron laughed.  
  
"I see the difficulty," he said. "Not to fear - we don't have any of Brummell's nonsense here. Most of the chaps pull them off before half-time. The thing is merely to look presentable." He eased the cloth out of Alistair's grip and, with a few deft movements, knotted it around his neck. He bent forward to whisper in Alistair's ear, under the pretext of straightening a fold, "Is Beckett twitching?"  
  
Alistair looked over the Baron's broad shoulder. Beckett did indeed look discomposed, and was occupying his hands by sprinkling into the fishbowl more crumbs than would satisfy a shark. Alistair nodded.  
  
"He hates that I can tie my own cravat," continued the Baron, still whispering. "He says it's ungentlemanly."  
  
"Is it?" asked Alistair, also quietly.  
  
"I'm not sure that's the point." The Baron's grin was wicked and brief. "All done," he said in his normal voice, smoothing Alistair's shirt. "And now for the _piece de resistance._ "  
  
He produced a gilt box, which he opened to reveal several scraps of felt in various colours. "Hmm," said the Baron. He held one such scrap up against Alistair's cheek. "That's about the right shade. Where's the glue?"  
  
"Here, sir," said Beckett.  
  
"Sit down." The Baron turned it into an order by pushing on Alistair's shoulder. Alistair bounced a little; the bed was springy. "I'd offer you the chair, but it's otherwise occupied." The occupant was a snoozing pug. He didn't look vicious, but nor did he look inclined to move for anything bar an earthquake.  
  
The Baron applied a line of glue to the felt he'd chosen, which tingled on Alistair's skin. With his lip between his teeth and his eyes fixed disconcertingly on Alistair's face, the Baron added more and more felt. When he was satisfied, he held up a mirror for Alistair's benefit.  
  
"I look like a bear died on my face," said Alistair. "Was that the intended effect?"  
  
"You have a _beard_ ," the Baron corrected him, with a tinge of annoyance. "It's a disguise."  
  
"Oh." Alistair touched the felt moustache with his fingertips. "I'm not sure it will fool anyone who's actually met me."  
  
"Well, I'm not finished yet," said the Baron. Definitely nettled. Alistair caught Beckett's eye, hoping for evidence of sympathy or even just humanity, but Beckett turned an empty stare back on him.  
  
"More glue!" snapped the Baron. He bent down - the shirt still sticking to the wet spots on his back - and pulled a box from under the bed.  
  
It contained a wig.  
  
Alistair stared at the wig. He stared at the Baron. It was clear Alistair and the wig were to become one. He'd been hoping for a pair of spectacles, or perhaps a distractingly large beauty spot.  
  
He sighed and bent his head.

+++

The Baron and Alistair were racing at breakneck speed towards the palace when Alistair recalled his clothes. They were a welcome distraction from the threat of imminent death. Alistair yelled into the Baron's ear, the wind tearing away his words.  
  
"What?"  
  
"My clothes!"  
  
"What about them?"  
  
"They're still hanging on your screen!"  
  
The Baron glanced sideways and nearly drove them into a lamp-post. "Are you sure?"  
  
"No, my other ones!"  
  
"Oh, those." The phaeton careered around a corner and jolted to a halt. There was a jam of traffic blocking their way, the sound of nervous whinnies - not to mention horses - all around them. "Don't worry, I'll get them back to you. What did you think of that screen, by the way?"  
  
"Oh, um." Alistair tried for diplomatic and came up with nothing.  
  
"Hideous, is it not? My sister made it. I fear her talents lay outside the field of needlework."  
  
"I think, perhaps - yes," conceded Alistair. His hands were shaking, so he balled them up. He didn't think the Baron, busy snapping a whip over his horses' flanks, noticed, at least until he said softly:  
  
"No need to be nervous. I'm probably the only scout who chooses candidates on pure talent alone, so you have that in your favour."  
  
"What, mindless egoism?" But the thought made Alistair smile.  
  
"That's better."  
  
"Are commoners allowed to watch the trials?" asked Alistair, as the phaeton bumped through the crush of carriages.  
  
"I don't see why not, if they get there early enough. Why?"  
  
"Oh, Betty was saying she'd like to go." Alistair leaned in to avoid a potential collision with the oversized lamps of a passing barouche. The bony edge of the Baron's shoulder was slightly the better option.  
  
"Betty's quite a girl, don't you think?"  
  
Alistair snatched a glance sideways. The Baron had the reins twisted around his wrists and was guiding the horses with no inconsiderable skill. His voice was less importuning than Jimmy's had been, but it was in the same spectrum.  
  
"She's certainly determined," said Alistair. A second later they cleared the jam and the Baron crouched forward, urging on the horses like a tiger. Alistair forgot everything - his nerves, his concern over Sir Paul - in favour of clinging on for dear life.  
  
+++  
  
Life changed for Alistair when he played. Everything inside his head slowed, pinpointed on three things, and three things only: his two feet and the ball. Other players were incidental. Even the touchline was incidental, except as a distant aim. The end of a match was like coming to. The cuts and bruises began to sting, his breath began to burn, and his muscles began to cramp, saving it up for when he had time to care about them.  
  
On the hair-raising drive to the palace, his hair had been quite a lot on his mind. He worried that the addition of felt and wigs and half a horse's worth of glue would distract him, slow him down. In fact they were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, at least until the game ended.  
  
"That was wonderful. Quite sincerely wonderful," said the Baron. He greeted Alistair at the sideline, grabbing a silver beaker of water from a passing servant's tray.  
  
"I think my head may explode," said Alistair faintly.  
  
"Drink this and try to avoid detonation," advised the Baron. "That would truly ruin the disguise."  
  
Alistair's legs felt wobbly. He wasn't used to playing at such length, nor to testing his strength against players who were as good as he and many who were better. He'd been able to avoid Seb, who was on his team and thus unlikely to tackle him. One of the opposing players had already been carried off on a stretcher secondary to Seb's barbaric game play.  
  
Alistair barely noticed the Baron's hand on his back, guiding him to a wrought iron bench. There were several dotted around the pitch, reserved for ladies of quality. Even they had retreated in favour of letting the players rest, and nearly all the benches were colonised. One weedy young nobleman was stretched out on the nearest, bemoaning his hamstrings, but all it took to effect a miraculous cure was Jimmy casting a thoughtful eye over his watch chain.  
  
Alistair sat down slowly. The Prince had had them run around the pitch five times when the match was ended, something for which Alistair was more grateful now than at the time. He sipped the icy water and leaned his head back in abject relief.  
  
"You were brilliant!" Betty's skirts monopolised the rest of the bench and most of Alistair's lap. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Like an elephant sat on me," said Alistair. He flexed his leg muscles and winced. "We really should be going. What if Sir Paul sees us?"  
  
"I'll hide behind your beard," said Betty. "Besides, don't you want to find out if you made the team?"  
  
Alistair stared at his glass. He'd played the best game he'd ever played. He didn't think it would be enough.  
  
"Chin up," said the Baron. He nodded towards the weedy nobleman. "At least you didn't stop every five minutes to powder your nose."  
  
It hadn't escaped Alistair's notice that the Prince, who refereed the game, was attired sensibly with a conspicuous lack of paint and powder. He was a tall and slender young man, with wide shoulders unenhanced by subtle padding. His stern, angular face was accentuated rather than otherwise by the severe hairstyle he adopted. Alistair couldn't help smirking at the difference between him and the Baron, whose outfit relied heavily upon moss green velvet.  
  
A trumpeted fanfare heralded the Prince's return to the pitch, followed by a footman with a scroll. The entire company rose to their feet. Alistair's besieged muscles screeched as he bent into a low bow. Beside him, Betty's skirts swished as she executed a rather flashy curtsey.  
  
"Ladies and gentlemen, and especially players," began the Prince, "I thank you for your patience while we deliberated. It was a most difficult choice, as I see before me some of the most accomplished players in the kingdom. Unfortunately, at this time the Royal Team only has room for two of you. I hope those of you who do not gain a place will not be disheartened, but rather leave today more determined than ever. With that said, I ask players number eight and fourteen to accompany me to the Small Brown Ballroom."  
  
"That's you, that's you," said Betty, pushing at Alistair's shoulder when he sat stock-still. He looked up to the Baron for confirmation, his expression frozen in disbelief.  
  
"You are indeed number fourteen," said the Baron, smiling. "Congratulations. And you -" he turned to Jimmy "- owe me three pounds."  
  
"You bet against me?"  
  
"I play the odds, I play the odds." Jimmy spread his hands placatingly. "Ah come now, sir, a grand lord like yourself has no need of me last few pennies."  
  
"No, just your pounds," said the Baron equably.  
  
"He's waiting," said Betty. Number eight was already at the Prince's side - a stocky individual, one of the few not dressed in a proper kit. His small blackberry eyes were shining, bestowing on his pastry-like face a transient glow of dignity.  
  
With a final push from Betty, Alistair got to his feet. The Prince's face lightened when he saw Alistair approach. A few curls escaped from the tight knot at the back of the Prince's head, softening the lines of his face. Alistair felt suddenly shy.  
  
"There you are," said the Prince. "I was beginning to think you'd rebuffed my offer."  
  
"Oh no, sir," said Alistair. "It's a great honour. I just had a little difficulty in realising it was _my_ honour."  
  
"Alistair Carlisle," said the Prince. "Now why does that sound familiar? Was your mother at court?"  
  
"I don't believe so, sir," said Alistair. It was true; his mother died before Sir Paul got around to presenting her.  
  
"It's of no matter," said the Prince. "You and Dirkhold and I have much to discuss. There are some refreshments laid on in the Ballroom. My servant will show you - I must thank your fellow players for attending."  
  
The Prince nodded their dismissal and started towards the weedy nobleman, in whose face was nothing but the most exquisite relief at his escape. Dirkhold watched the Prince go in admiration.  
  
"What a gennelmun!" he said, twisting his hat in his hands. "Fancy thanking everyone individual-like. He's got a real common touch, he has."  
  
Alistair nodded his agreement. He fully shared Dirkhold's sentiments, but his focus was taken by quite another quarter. Sir Paul and his sons were in a huddle on one of the benches. As he watched, Seb looked up. His face was twisted in his most vicious scowl yet, which given the competition was quite an achievement. But what chilled Alistair to the marrow was the look on Sir Paul's face. He wasn't angry at all. He was cold as ice.  
  
+++  
  
Alistair and Dirkhold were presented with house slippers to wear on entering the Palace, but Alistair was reluctant to relinquish his boots. He looped the laces around his neck and Dirkhold did the same.  
  
"The footman didn't like that," whispered Dirkhold.  
  
"He's a footman," said Alistair. "He's trained not to like anything."  
  
It transpired that Dirkhold was a farmer on the Duke of Marsh-on-Wye's estate. He'd never been in a city before, much less in the presence of nobility. It took five minutes of convincing before he would so much as assent to sit down on a royal chaise. He babbled when nervous, a fact of which Alistair took full advantage. He was not inclined to openly discuss his own family situation, but by the end of an hour he was fully educated as to Dirkhold's.  
  
When the Prince returned it was in full regalia - purple brocade frock-coat, snow-white stockings and pumps with diamond rosettes. His appearance quite stopped Dirkhold's mouth, although the Prince himself was all affability, and never called attention to the fact that Dirkhold did nothing but nod each time the Prince spoke.  
  
"I understand the Baron discovered you," the Prince said to Alistair, when pursuing the same line of conversation with Dirkhold proved fruitless. "I shall have to see that he gets his reward."  
  
"His reward, sir?"  
  
"Indeed yes," said the Prince. "He's discovered more new talent than all my other scouts put together. It makes Sir Paul rather cross, which is just an added benefit."  
  
"I see," said Alistair. For some reason a little of the joy went out of the afternoon. He picked up a dainty cake and ate the crystallised rose atop it, giving the Prince an opening to continue without him.  
  
"I think a little healthy competition is good for all," said the Prince. "It encourages industry, which is one of my father's pet concepts. All the scouts work harder for knowing only one of them gets the turnip."  
  
"The turnip?"  
  
The Prince frowned. "Perhaps not a turnip. Some root vegetable, certainly. I can never recall the analogy correctly. I do believe donkeys are also involved."  
  
"It would be interesting, sir," said Alistair, feeling an imp bite his soul, "if you gave the Baron a real turnip as a reward."  
  
The Prince seemed much struck by the idea. "A gold-plated turnip," he mused. "Or a turnip with a jewel inside. By jove, that's a novel idea."  
  
A soft puttering noise came from the chaise. Alistair compressed his lips, but the Prince let out a bark of laughter. "He's fallen asleep! Tuckered out, I'd say. My subjects never fail to amuse."  
  
"I'm glad to hear it, sir." Alistair wondered if it was bad form to eat all the crystallised roses and none of the cakes. He decided it was, but since no one else was eating either cakes or roses he did it anyway.  
  
"We'll leave him in peace," said the Prince, after a few minutes of amused observation. "Would you care to see something of the Palace? I'm of a mind to grand you a baronetcy. I like having new people about - the older courtiers can be so stuffy."  
  
"Thank you, your Highness, but that is quite unnecessary," said Alistair.  
  
"Let me be the judge of that." The Prince jumped to his feet. Something about his flashing smile reminded Alistair that the Prince was quite young - not much older than Alistair himself, for that matter.  
  
Alistair let the Prince chatter on as he followed him through room after room festooned with velvet, gold plate and darkening mahogany. It was clear that some of the older pieces of furniture hadn't been moved in centuries; they gave the distinct impression that they'd bite if such impudence was attempted. At last the Prince threw open a pair of blue and gilt doors, from the Baron's sister's school of design, and led Alistair into the first room in which he could breathe freely.  
  
"Now this is something," said Alistair, taking in the airy white furniture and periwinkle wallpaper.  
  
"My favourite room." The Prince watched him narrowly, and broke into an answering smile when Alistair grinned at him.  
  
There were French doors in two walls of the room, open to the breeze and a pale grey balcony. The view was marvellous, encompassing great swathes of frangipani and bougainvillaea, stripes of bright green grass and, away beyond all of it, the city itself. Gauzy drapes danced in the wind, which shuffled papers strewn across three or four desks. Above all it was a lived-in and living room, which was what separated it from the deadness in the rest of the Palace.  
  
A low shelf near the windows caught Alistair's eye. He didn't hear himself gasp as went towards it. It was filled with the most fantastic wooden toys Alistair had ever seen. He picked up a train, three carriages long, which had doors that opened and seats filled with tiny, delicately-painted passengers whose arms really moved.  
  
"Extraordinary, isn't it?" said the Prince. "I couldn't bear to part with any of them, although I'm at least a decade too old to have a legitimate interest in toys."  
  
"These aren't toys, they're masterpieces," said Alistair. "My word, look at that set of cavalry soldiers."  
  
"If you pull a string, the horses really gallop," said the Prince. "Mind you, my ... youthful enthusiasm somewhat exhausted the mechanism." At Alistair's raised eyebrows, he added, "In other words, I broke them."  
  
"Maybe that's the point of toys," said Alistair. "They teach you not to break the things you love." He carefully set the train back on the shelf. He'd had a train just like that once - nothing like so fine, but it gave him just as much pleasure. Like most things he'd brought from his grandfather's house to Sir Paul's, it was long since gone, smashed under the heel of either Seb or Dommie.  
  
"You look sad." The Prince put his hand on Alistair's chin, turning it up. "I don't want my newest wing to be sad."  
  
"Just thinking of the past, your Highness," said Alistair. The Prince stroked his thumb over the dimple in Alistair's chin, just catching the underside of his lip. Alistair shivered.  
  
"I say," said the Prince, the dreamy expression on his face solidifying somewhat, "your beard is falling off -"  
  
At that moment a clock chimed - a low, hungry bellow. Alistair wrenched himself out of the Prince's grip.  
  
"I'm sorry, your Highness," he gasped, "I must go."  
  
"Don't forget the ball tomorrow night," the Prince called. "It's being held in your honour."  
  
Alistair struggled with the doors. They finally parted, jolting Alistair backwards. One of his boots got stuck in the tiny gap; Alistair shrugged it off, feeling the other go too.  
  
"Alistair?"  
  
"Tomorrow, your Highness!" said Alistair. He grabbed the first footman he saw and demanded to be shown the exit. The footman was only too happy to oblige.  
  
+++  
  
On the run home, Alistair attempted without success to remove his wig and beard. The depths his memory provided him with a reminder of the Baron mentioning something about soap and salt and piping hot water, but that didn't deter him. The mind-bending pain did.  
  
Alistair retained a slim hope that his stepfather had remained on at the Palace, a hope that shrivelled and died when Sir Paul himself strode into the kitchen seconds after Alistair. This was a singular event in itself, but Sir Paul didn't seem in the mood to appreciate the marvels he had heretofore missed.  
  
"You!" he growled, waving a shaking finger at Alistair's nose. "I might have known. After all I've done for you, you choose to betray me! Well, sir, I shall not stand for it! You stole my son's place on that team and by George I'll see you ruined first."  
  
Alistair felt a wave of immense calm envelop him. "What do you propose to do? Lock me away until the Prince forgets my existence?"  
  
"That'll be a jolly good start!" Spittle festooned every syllable. "You were foolish to trifle with me, boy. I'll have you on the first ship to the colonies if I have to stuff your pockets with my silver myself!"  
  
He launched at Alistair, whipping an iron-filled fist around Alistair's arm. Not seeming to care if he broke any bones, he pulled Alistair up the stairs and towards the library. The racket brought the twins to the scene.  
  
"Why'd you bring that dirty cheater here, Father?" growled Seb.  
  
Dommie's eyes widened. "But that's _Alistair_!" he gasped. "I never knew he was so good at rugby."  
  
"He's not!" howled Seb and Sir Paul at the same time.  
  
"My skills," panted Alistair, "have been greatly exaggerated."  
  
"Shut it, You." Sir Paul casually backhanded Alistair across the face. A revolting meaty tang filled his mouth. Sir Paul pushed Alistair through the library door, so hard he skidded to the ground, and slammed it behind him. There was a snick, far too small a sound for the significance due it.  
  
"Come along," Alistair heard Sir Paul say, "we're going to Court."  
  
"We've just come from Court," complained Dommie.  
  
"There's room for you in the library too," said Sir Paul. "No further objections? Good. We have some explaining to do. I'm sure the Prince will be a little sad to hear of the death of his, ah, _talented_ new wing, but Sebastian being such a fine replacement will be sure to ease his sorrow."  
  
"I will? Oh. I will!"  
  
"That's my boy," said Sir Paul.  
  
Alistair crawled to the empty grate and spat out a mouthful of blood. The library had been designed by someone using monastery cells for inspiration. The only window was high in the wall and so tiny a snake would have lost a skin going through. One of the reasons the room was so seldom used - aside from Alistair's doubts that the twins could actually read - was the prohibitive cost of the candles required to light it.  
  
Alistair tried the door. Three inches thick, solid oak, with a lock better suited to Newgate than a gentleman's residence. Short of battering it down with a dictionary, there was no way out by that route.  
  
Alistair slid down, back against the wall. He hadn't eaten since early that morning and his head felt lighter than it should. Just when he needed his senses to be most acute, they grew fuzzier and fuzzier. Instead of searching for possible exit routes, his brain fancied itself in the past. How many times had he sat in here, dusting Sir Paul's never-read books, enduring the taunts of his illiterate sons? They thought they were cleverer than university dons, yet Seb couldn't even pass an exam. Sir Paul had had to build a new chapel for his college before they'd accept him.  
  
"Sir Soot-face," taunted Seb's - or was it Dommie's? - voice. Alistair probably had soot on his face right now, from leaning over the grate. In the end, maybe that was his lot in life. Ignorant masters, a dirty face, and endless menial tasks. He'd been due to clean all the hearths tomorrow...  
  
Alistair's eyes blinked open of their own accord, and swung sideways. There was the hearth. There was the grate. There was the chimney.  
  
And beyond that ... freedom.  
  
+++  
  
Alistair regretted his rash idea by the time he was half-way up the chimney. Unfortunately, by then it was even more difficult to go back down than to continue up. His every facial orifice was crammed with coal dust. He'd long since stopped bothering to wipe it away. His eyes stung with a million beats of pain, but something greater drove him on.  
  
It was evening by the time he finally dragged himself through the chimney pot and on to the roof. It was then that another huge problem presented itself to his consciousness.  
  
His heel kicked a slate and he slid, terrifyingly close to the precipice. "Goddamn _Betty_ ," he said. At that moment in time, she seemed the orchestrator of all his troubles. If she hadn't made him leave the house that morning, none of this would have happened.  
  
"Did you hear that?"  
  
Alistair stiffened. There was a lot of noise up here in the sky - thumps and bangs from inside the houses, creaks from the slates shifting, the low roar of smoke billowing out of the chimney stacks. An occasional bubble of sound from the street penetrated the rest. Alistair could have sworn that was -  
  
"I'm sure of it. Alistair! Alistair! Can you hear me?"  
  
"Betty?" called Alistair in disbelief. "Where are you?"  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"On the roof!"  
  
Silence reigned following this. Then -  
  
"Can you get down?"  
  
"Yes," said Alistair. "It's the getting down and being alive afterwards that I'm not entirely sure about."  
  
"Alistair, can you hear me?"  
  
A dart of surprise arrowed through Alistair's fog of panic. "Yes, your honour."  
  
"Oh, for God's - listen to me. There's a window just under the roof. And another below that. If you can lower yourself to the ledge, you can hold on to it and drop down."  
  
"And if I miss?"  
  
"I suggest you do not miss."  
  
Alistair had kicked off the Palace slippers during his ascent through the chimney. Now he dispensed with his shirt and waistcoat as well. Although the cold air scratched his bare skin, it was a sight less dangerous than wearing acres of material that might catch on things. He sent the bundle sailing out over the edge and, not leaving himself another second to deeply consider the situation, he rolled on to his stomach and wriggled over the side of the roof.  
  
His feet banged against glass. Holding on to the gutter, his knuckles bursting into white, he lowered his body inch by inch until his toes found the ledge. It was approximately the width of a finger. Alistair nearly blacked out with terror; but given a choice between a baby-sized ledge and sudden painful death, his terror receded slightly.  
  
The same force that propelled him through games spidered his body down the side of the house, from window to window. The wind scourged his back and turned his fingers and toes into senseless ice. And still he struggled on.  
  
The last window was beside the door. The drop to the ground was about six feet, for the front steps and their fancy railings were designed to hide the existence of the kitchen level.  
  
"I can't -" said Alistair.  
  
"Swing this way," commanded the Baron. Alistair winched his head around. The Baron leaned over the railing. He didn't seem to care that the spikes tore his fine shirt to ribbons and his ribbons to threads.  
  
"I can't," said Alistair.  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," said the Baron, with a shrillness to his voice that Alistair didn't appreciate until later. He stretched out his arm, hand splayed. Obeying instinct, Alistair pushed the final inch and wrapped his cold fingers around the Baron's.  
  
With Betty holding on to the back of the Baron's coat, he pulled Alistair over and across the railings. They collapsed in a heap, Alistair's face crushed into the Baron's heaving throat. Betty was the first to extricate herself.  
  
"If anyone saw this, the scandal would be atrocious," she said. Alistair just wanted to sleep. Unfortunately, his pillow had other ideas.  
  
The Baron struggled into a sitting position. Alistair grumbled his protest, burrowing into the crook of the Baron's neck and closing his eyes. With a sigh, the Baron patted his head.  
  
"There goes that suit," he said. "And the scandal will be atrocious. Sir Paul is so immured in his own consequence he never saw the opportunity of having a star player in his household. When word gets out that he's been sitting on your talent for years ... well."  
  
"Why did you come?" mumbled Alistair. "Sir Paul told the Prince I was dead."  
  
The patting abruptly stopped. "He did _what_?"  
  
"I suspected as much," said Betty. "The Palace?"  
  
"At once!" said the Baron. "On second thoughts ..." He looked down at Alistair, who was losing the battle against sleep. "Perhaps we'd better call a hansom."  
  
+++  
  
 _One Week Later_  
  
A soft knock preceded the Prince into Alistair's chamber. He smiled when he saw the tangled remains of five cravats, limp on the bed.  
  
"I brought you these," said the Prince. He dangled Alistair's boots from one finger.  
  
"My boots! In all the confusion, I forgot about them." Alistair tenderly took the boots and placed them near the fire. "It's a good thing you gave them to me, or I'd be playing the match tomorrow in my stockings."  
  
"Do not you think we would have given you another pair?" said the Prince. "I imagine the royal coffers can extend to one paltry pair of shoes."  
  
"These are my lucky pair," said Alistair. "In fact they're my only pair. I'm just glad to have them back."  
  
"You look well," said the Prince. "The coat fits?"  
  
"Perfectly," said Alistair. "Your tailor is a genius, your Highness."  
  
"Pray don't tell him so. His head is quite fat enough already." The Prince stood up from the chaise longue and put a hand on Alistair's shoulder. His eyes, regarding Alistair's in the mirror's reflection, were serious. "Have you given any further thought to my offers? Any of them?"  
  
"I have, your Highness." Alistair took a deep breath. "It was most kind and generous of you -"  
  
"Oh, hang kind and generous. I made the offers for myself first."  
  
"Which is why I'm even sorrier that I must decline." Alistair turned around, gently dislodging the Prince's hand. "I just want to play rugby, your Highness. It's the only thing I've ever wanted to do."  
  
"I could order you by Royal Decree," said the Prince, testingly.  
  
"But you won't." Alistair went on tip-toes and brushed a kiss against the Prince's cheek. He was blushing furiously when he stepped away.  
  
"Go on, then," said the Prince. "I shan't be along for another half-hour or so. Etiquette demands that I make an entrance."  
  
"Thank you, sir," said Alistair.  
  
"Yes, yes." The Prince waved him off.  
  
Alistair burst into a wild run down the corridor, much to the disapproval of a nearby footman. He couldn't wait to attend the ball, meet his teammates, listen to Dirkhold's burbles of awe - see the Baron...  
  
He rounded a corner and saw the Baron. He was standing with Betty - Betty who was decked out in silk and diamonds, her creamy hair swept up into a coronet. Their hands were clasped, Betty's head bent. Alistair's mind circled the scene, refusing to land. Of course, you heard of it sometimes - noblemen carried away by their passions, honourable enough to stand by their lights o' love. It never ended well.  
  
"Alistair!" cried Betty. She dropped the Baron's hands and moved towards him. She was enchanting. Alistair hated her. "At last. We have something to tell you -"  
  
"I'm sorry." Alistair cut her off coldly. He sketched a bow. "You must excuse me. I have a ball to attend."  
  
"But -"  
  
Alistair slipped past them, only his dignity preventing him from running. His speed prevented him from hearing whatever it was she had to say.  
  
The Large Brown Ballroom was packed to capacity when Alistair's name was announced. He disappeared gratefully into the throng. Dirkhold had found his tongue, which he was using to regale fascinated ladies with tales of ploughing.  
  
The morass of people parted, revealing to Alistair in all its glory the refreshments table. The delicate punch-glasses held barely a sip, so Alistair refilled his until his hand started missing the ladle. He thought it incumbent upon him to take some fresh air. The balcony was hardly less crowded than the ballroom, but coolness burst against Alistair's flushed cheeks. His vision was somewhat less than precise, which was why he didn't recognise his stepbrother until Dommie plucked at his arm.  
  
Dommie said something, but the words oozed in gelatinous incomprehension through Alistair's ears. "I thought you were gone," he said. "With Sir Paul."  
  
"My father mumble mumble mumble," said Dommie. "Emperor Xang mumble. Mumble does not agree with me. Besides," and suddenly the words were too loud, thrashing against Alistair's eardrums, "I thought I'd have a crack at that maid. Only she's not a maid. Baron Ildewilde's sister. Quite a girl. She called me a festering mullet yesterday." Dommie beamed. "I think she likes me."  
  
"What?" said Alistair stupidly.  
  
"Ah, there she is. Lady Ildewilde! Over here!" Dommie waved an arm, decapitating a nearby plant and very nearly a waiter.  
  
"Kindly desist," hissed Betty. Betty-in-a-diamond-crown. "You are making a hideous spectacle of yourself. Is there not a separate room for incurable oafs?"  
  
"You look pretty," said Dommie. Betty rolled her eyes and snapped out a fan.  
  
"Rupert's been looking for you this past hour," she said to Alistair. "We've been planning this surprise all week. You might do him the kindness of enduring it."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Good lord, you're drunk." This seemed to amuse Betty greatly. "Oh, _Dominic_. Won't you do me the service of escorting your stepbrother to my brother? He's waiting somewhere by the door, unless he's lately been ensnared by a noblewoman on the make."  
  
"Certainly, m'lady. May I also bring you some punch?"  
  
Betty waved her fan like a cutlass. "Oh, I quite mistook what you said. My version was far more violent. Yes, I suppose you may."  
  
Alistair felt a strong grip encase his elbow. He thought he should fight it, but there was no twisting and no pain and no suggestion that buckets of ice water would soon become involved, so he let it be.  
  
Baron Ildewilde waited in the lobby, half in the shadow of a vast and ugly statue. Groups of sparkling women bedecked every corner, whom he regarded with slightly wild eyes. He was dressed in what appeared to be bright orange silk festooned with blue stripes. Alistair felt slightly more ill at the sight of it.  
  
"He's drunk," said the Baron in disgust.  
  
"It wasn't me!" protested Dommie.  
  
"I do sincerely hope and pray," said the Baron, "that you will not become my brother-in-law. Go away now."  
  
"I'm cold," said Alistair.  
  
"Where's your coat?" asked the Baron. Alistair thought for a while. It was a question that required much pondering.  
  
"I think," he said at length, "I put it on the ice-sculpture. It was melting."  
  
"Oh, Lord." The Baron passed his hand over his eyes. His gloves were of fine gold netting sprinkled with sapphires. They were insanely hideous.  
  
"Betty's not a maid, is she?" said Alistair, struck with sudden insight.  
  
"No," said the Baron. "She can't sew for toffee, either. But she's a damn fine actress. I only fear that if there's not many intrigues in future she'll take to the stage."  
  
"But why?" Alistair put his hand somewhere among the flame-coloured ruffles, searching for balance. He appeared to have lost it. He looked up into the Baron's eyes, which were narrowed in anger. Or uncertainty.  
  
"Money. A lot of money," said the Baron. "Your grandfather's accumulated quite a pile from his custom-made toys. The Prince bought out his entire stock one year, when he was younger, and he's had Royal Patronage every since. Sir Paul is a slippery character. The only way to get around him was to be even slipperier."  
  
"Oh," said Alistair, disappointed. "I thought it was because you liked me."  
  
"I..." The Baron hesitated. "Do you recall when you lived in your grandfather's house?"  
  
Alistair nodded, then wished he hadn't. The world spun in three different directions. "It was the happiest time of my life," he said simply. Before his mother remarried. Before she died. Before Sir Paul caught Alistair writing to his grandfather, and beat him so hard he didn't wake up for week.  
  
"You used to play with me and my brothers in the tenement down the road," said the Baron. "Lord Scropie was visiting your grandfather one day when he spotted us - apparently because your grandfather suggested it. I owed him a debt, which has now been paid."  
  
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?"  
  
"Almost," said the Baron. "Your grandfather would like to see you. Now that Sir Paul's safely off teaching slaves to play rugby across the Eastern Oceans, would you like to see him too?"  
  
"More than anything," said Alistair, which wasn't quite true. Apropos of nothing, he added, "I turned down the Prince's offer."  
  
"Which one?" The Baron sounded bitter. "For his cabinet or for his bed?"  
  
"Both," said Alistair breathlessly. "I told him I just wanted to play rugby."  
  
The Baron's mouth twitched. Alistair put his hand up to feel the movement, rough-soft lips moving under his own.  
  
"Baron -"  
  
"Call me Rupert," muttered the Baron, snatching a soul-jolting kiss from Alistair just before he passed out.  
  
+++  
  
And they all lived happily ever after.  
  
+++  
  
Except for Sir Paul, who caught dengue fever from one of Emperor Xang's concubines, and for Sebastian Mallett, who caught dengue fever from one of Emperor Xang's concubines. It was not so much the yellow fever, but the fact that it was the same concubine, that finished them.

 


End file.
